The Beautiful Condemned and the Crimson Cough
Paris and London are hotbeds of tuberculosis and political prisoners. So I half-expected we might cross paths... but still.
"Hard to believe you're the one they call the beautiful condemned," I said, scanning his disheveled appearance.
"An exile's life is naturally far from elegant."
The condemned man talking back? "Hunger doesn't exactly help with keeping up one's looks, does it?" Not that I should be saying that.
I folded my fan and turned to Bertie. "Bertie, may I take this gentleman with me? My maid explained the situation, but it seems there was a regrettable misunderstanding."
"Ah, of course. If he's a friend of yours..."
That's the power of imperial endorsement for you.
"Artists are always so radical, aren't they? And anyone gets touchy when they're starving." I brushed it off vaguely, then called for Hunyadi. "Hunyadi, take this man to Savile Row."
"Understood, Your Majesty."
"Königseck."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I whispered behind my fan, low enough for only her to hear. "What was he arrested for?"
"...He was picked up while out for a stroll."
Ah, got it... so that's the concept. An unidentified man lurking around where the Prince of Wales and the Austrian Empress take their walks. The perfect bait to draw the guards' eyes.
Andrássy Gyula... I still exchanged letters through Hunyadi now and then with Ferenc Deák and Joseph Eötvös. They were solid moderates, the reliable Hungarian faction. Joseph understood that much.
But Andrássy Gyula was dangerous. So for now, I'd send him off. Acquaintance made—that would have to suffice.
"Sisi? What are you thinking about so deeply?"
Bertie's voice snapped me back. "Nothing at all." I smiled lightly and took his arm. "Come on, we have our own itinerary to enjoy."
Now, how to wield this double-edged sword...
Bertie checked his pocket watch. "To the Lyceum Theatre, my lady."
"Thanks, Mr. Saxe-Coburg-Gotha."
The theater we reached by carriage reeked of gas. Oh... that bluish, somehow artificial glow. Should I suggest Vienna try this? But our Viennese theaters still lack proper ventilation.
"Your Majesty, Your Highness, this way please." The manager bowed nearly to the ground, escorting us to the royal box.
As we settled in, a murmur rippled through the stalls below, all eyes on us.
"Looks like word got around."
With nobles—not gentry—in the ground floor seats.
"No different from Vienna."
True, even in the 21st century, the British royals drew crowds everywhere.
"Unlike Viennese opera, this melodrama will have plenty of songs."
Melodrama, huh? If I'd known, I would've pushed for musicals sooner.
I pulled out the opera glasses Joseph had given me. Right before curtain, scanning the audience always yields fun sights. Like that one.
"He's meeting his mistress."
"Who?"
"Lord Palmerston."
Probably here to keep tabs on Bertie, who's renegotiating ties with Austria. Meeting his government contacts on the side, too.
"Lord Cupid's busy as ever today."
England grows more baffling the longer I observe. They call us a multi-ethnic empire oppressors while building their own colonial one, preach strict morality and family values, yet turn a blind eye to discreet affairs like this. No wonder Jekyll and Hyde is British.
"You disapprove, Sisi?"
"As long as it's not just you and me."
Let others have their flings.
"If my mother saw that, she'd have lectured him for three hours straight on his private life alone."
"Still, it's intriguing. Vienna has none of this vibe."
In Vienna, husbands kept mistresses with their wives' tacit approval, and society openly ignored it. Wives looked the other way after producing an heir. Like an unofficial polygamy. Refuse to ignore it, and it's not a mistress—it's adultery. A declaration of war between families, shattering the sacred marriage vows.
"His Majesty has no royal mistress, does he?"
Of course not. If he did, it'd be disaster. We've got heirs; he'd discard anything unnecessary now.
I nodded in response to Bertie's question.
"Your Majesty, an urgent telegram from London."
Count Grüne entered with the telegram on a tray. Joseph barely lifted his head from the mountain of documents awaiting his signature.
"London?"
London—must be about Sisi. A faint note of anticipation colored his voice.
Since Sisi left, the officials were wilting from exhaustion. Clashes with Archduchess Sophie had grown frequent, and there was no empress to burst into his office for tea or drag him on walks.
Joseph set down his pen and took the telegram.
Her Majesty the Empress reports mild cold symptoms. For rest, scheduled itinerary canceled; early return to Vienna decided.
His brows furrowed as he read.
"Mild cold, it says."
Anxiety washed over Grüne. "...Is she returning?"
"Yes."
His fears were confirmed. Has the Empress ever cut a trip short for something like this? Never. He couldn't recall a single instance.
"Chief chamberlain, you know as well as I—she's not one to cancel for a mere cold."
"Clearly a diplomatic euphemism for the situation."
Joseph paced restlessly before summoning the physician. "Fetch the Empress's physician. She left Schoda in Vienna for the children."
Soon, Joseph Schoda entered cautiously, gauging the emperor's expression. "You summoned me, Your Majesty?"
Joseph handed him the telegram without a word. Schoda skimmed it quickly and anticipated the question.
"Recent papers note smog increasing pneumonia cases."
"Smog?"
Schoda explained calmly, as a doctor. "Yes. London's fog isn't mere vapor—it's poison gas from thousands of factory chimneys, coal dust and sulfur mixed. Even healthy men cough up phlegm and struggle to breathe after prolonged exposure. Let alone Her Majesty..."
He paused, glancing at Joseph. He had to touch the sore spot.
"Speak. What about the Empress?"
"...In five years of marriage, she bore four children."
Joseph's eyes wavered. "And that's a problem?"
"Absolutely. Medically, a woman's body needs at least two years to fully recover post-birth. Yet Her Majesty endured constant pregnancies and labors without respite."
Schoda's diagnosis was brutally clinical. "She appears young and beautiful, but her body is fragile, a mere shell. Frequent births drain the mother's vitality, weakening lungs and airways especially—all nutrients poured into the fetuses. In that depleted state, inhaling London's toxic smog... her lungs screaming in protest is inevitable."
Joseph clenched his fist. I made Sisi ill. His obsession with quick heirs, his own desires—they'd driven her to the brink.
"Reported as a simple cold, but I suspect acute pneumonia with hemoptysis—or worst case..."
Schoda trailed off, but Joseph knew: tuberculosis.
He'd have to let her go. "Enough for a retreat to Laxenburg outside Vienna?"
Schoda bowed deeper. "Your Majesty, if tuberculosis, farther still."
"Physician, your opinion."
Joseph thought within the empire, but reality dashed it. "Madeira Islands. Year-round sun and clean Atlantic winds alone can heal torn lungs. From London, a British royal vessel would convey her most comfortably."
Joseph stared blankly at the tiny dot on the map: Madeira. Too far from Vienna. He couldn't hold her now even if he wanted.
But summoning her to Vienna would be a death sentence.
He rubbed his face with trembling hands. "...Chief chamberlain, send a telegram requesting London's cooperation."
What did I tell you?
"It's just fatigue, that's all."
See? The cough stopped as soon as we left London.
"Your Majesty, Archduke Maximilian and his wife will handle it well."
No... that's not the point. I'm really fine. What am I, dying at this age?
Until Luigi Lucheni's knife strikes, Elisabeth von Wittelsbach won't die.
Not if there's any justice. London's air was just bad, that's all.
So why Madeira, of all places?
...Joseph hasn't found another woman, has he? I figured he'd summon me straight to Vienna.
And so the Victoria and Albert set course for Madeira. Talk about a childish name. What's wrong with Franz Joseph and Elisabeth?